


Training Wheels

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: "Just Bros" Excuse, Anal Fingering, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Loss of Trust, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Nude Photos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: “You haven’t fingered a girl? Mitchy, you can’t just shove it in; you’ll hurt them. You don’t want that, do you?”





	Training Wheels

**Author's Note:**

> There's increasingly dubious consent in the story, and I've included a more in-depth explanation in the end notes if you are interested. This story is a bit weird and not one of my best partially because it's exam season, but nonetheless, it is my offering for December.
> 
> [This is a work of fiction and does not accurately depict the people listed inside. Please do not share this on social media nor harass people about it, whether they are in the story or not. Please know that I do not condone encouraging non-consensual relationships and am only using this as a character study. This is an alternate universe separate from real life. Thanks.]

Frustration gnaws at the inside of Auston’s belly like a tapeworm, wriggling deep inside of his intestines and latching onto the juicy arteries. Defeat never clears easily from his conscience; his brain may as well be broadcast on national television to the tune of a dead man’s fiddle. The night’s efforts was sloppy playmaking on his behalf and it remains as a migraine, doomed to loop until he can’t muster the energy to stay awake.

Social media is a stale, saltine-cracker mush that all blends in together. He swipes through the reminders that talk about physiotherapy appointments and massage therapy. His agenda is packed to the brim with charity events and commercial shoots. Looking at it smashes his brainstem into a pulp.

He slams his thumb down on the home button and flees to his Photos, where albums of material flock to his collections feed. He idly scrolls through some of the new additions he’s banked, including a red-headed selfie queen with more glitter on her face than the average consumer’s Barbie doll. Her stuff is pretty tame in comparison to the nudes that clamber into view in spades, all vying for his attention.

Between the rows of women getting their legs waxed competing against breasts and cleavage comes a few misfits, favourited with hearts and sorted into an obscure album tucked in the far reaches of Auston’s storage. It begins with a single snap of tousled brown hair, thrown to the side and complemented with a side of pretty blue eyes. More follow and are just as subtle, almost passing as a woman. It isn’t until there’s a moistened dick popping up in the scroll that Auston stops.

Auston teeths his bottom lip, weighs him against the new girl, and decides to back up and swipe through the folder anyway.

There’s a disturbing collection of screen grabs and angles, all like pointillism forming one grand image of Mitch. They were grabbed at random, whenever Mitch was starving for attention and trying to appease Auston’s criticisms: so fairly often. There were so many nude photographs Auston looked like he could be a porn director and yet, the folder was dated at only two months old.

And in all honesty, you can’t blame him. Looking through the pieces reminds him why he snapped them in the first place, unbeknownst to their owner. Mitch is a little spitfire, a spark plug who’s incapable of thinking anything in the world was out to get him. He relies on Auston for almost everything social by virtue of having a great puppy-dog eye look to tempt him with.

Mitch’s got the consistency of play dough and bows to Auston’s every whim; he’s happy to fork over a few minutes of his evening each week to coach Mitch in return for some more content for his spank bank. Sue him.

Of course, he shoots back the usual tips on what to look for, how to pose, what girls want to see. He gets a few nice ass pictures out of it and jerks off imagining what it’ll feel like to slide the head of his cock in between the cheeks, grinding down just enough to create wilful friction. A deep purr rumbles through his chest and he clicks on the next photo, where Mitch has his dick in hand, rubbed nearly raw. He kept taking shots and Auston would say they weren’t good enough, eventually taking mercy when Mitch had come and the residue stuck to Mitch’s lower stomach like cement glue.

His right hand slinks down his stomach, pulling the corners of his shirt up from where they got stuck in the waistband of his shorts. His free hand angles the phone closer to his face so that he can zone in on the details; little things, like the beauty marks speckling Mitch’s upper thigh. The vantage points the photos give opens up a whole closet of ideas to twirl around his finger, starting with the one of Mitch pressing himself down by his stomach, on his back with a face pouting at the camera.

The front door beeps just as Auston’s wrapping a hand around the base of his dick and he curses, retreating into a protective hunch as he culls the blinds on his phone tab and tries to look normal. It’s none other than Mitch, docking in after a long day with an absurd yawn that draws Auston’s attention.

Mitch’s hair flies in every direction like a shaggy dog. Acne’s beginning to pepper his forehead again after rigorous training exercises that stain his face with sweat. Auston can’t help but notice the beet-red complexion dusting over the light freckles; how it springs a twinkle in the man’s eye.

Auston pats a spot on the bed next to him, throwing his phone away just in time for Mitch to launch himself across the comforter.

“What’s up, man?” Auston says.

“I dunno, just wanna hang out,” Mitch mouths it into the cotton, the garbled contraction that follows almost impossible to place.

Mitch lays himself out, flashing the column of skin on his neck repeatedly. A rough exhale tears itself out from Auston’s throat, washing over the flaky hairs there just enough to make them tremble. On his right hand, Auston can feel the stretch receptors between his joints spasm with the want to  _grab_ and  _rake_.

Auston winds air around his tongue and squashes it, playing his affections off by grinding the meat of his hand into Mitch’s back where he knows he’s sore. Mitch whittles out a sigh of content at the impromptu massage and says nothing. Auston lets his pinky stretch out and dares to grind into Mitch’s tailbone with a deadly concoction of fascination blotting his moral sense of right and wrong.

He clears his throat to get Mitch’s attention before the hardening bulge does.

“Hey. Can you get me tonight?” Auston says. Mitch blubbers into the soft cushions for a minute, before tilting his chin to the right with a questioning glare. Auston waggles his eyebrows, pointedly looking down for a split second to get his point across.

Mitch’s smile wanes, his mouth succumbing to a twig shape that looks ready to snap. “What? Now? We’re in the middle of a fucking roadie dude.”

“I know, but the locals aren’t biting and my girl at home isn’t budging either. It’ll just be quick, to pass the time.” He forces his eyebrows up into a warm glow. “I totally bought you lunch today so you can’t say I don’t do anything for you.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you hookup just yesterday?”

“No? I think you’re remembering wrong. It’s been a long fucking time, my dick’s going to fall off.” He fastens a hand around his crotch and waits for Mitch to stop rolling his eyes.

“Please?” Auston whines, for added effect. He crouches down and gets in close to Mitch’s ear. “You promised you would help.”

Mitch sticks his tongue out. “For the record, I’d like some kind of award for putting up with your bullshit.”

Satisfied with the response, Auston bounces right back to the punch. “I’m sure if I ask your mom she could loan one of your participation ribbons.” Mitch lightly backhands Auston, sending them both off into sputtering giggles.

“Shut up,” Mitch quips. “This is the last time though. If you ask again I’m calling Gwen up myself and filing a formal complaint.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear it. Thanks, man.”

Mitch scoots back on the bed and shucks his shirt off using the open neckline. It’s stretched enough that there’s no difficulty in disposing it over the bed. Mitch’s hands fly to the zipper on his jeans and tugs it down with two rapid jerks, the metal choking on the denim stitching. Auston peels his eyes away just long enough to deal with his own clothing problem.

By now, it’s procedural. When they do it at home, Mitch will usually plug himself into a song via earbuds and close his eyes as Auston works mechanically above him. Being on the road is a shock to both of their systems. Without his equipment, Mitch’s boxers linger longer than normal and swish when he slumps down to the opposing bed.

Auston sweetens the deal with a metal canister of lube he keeps packed in his suitcase. His index finger gets a good dribble, which he wipes the remainder off on his dick as it chubbs up, free from his briefs.

Mitch has the habit of spreading himself out thin, ripe for the taking. Auston can position himself on top and open his thighs up over Mitch’s legs. It gives the optimal view of Mitch’s creamy skin, paving the bedside in every direction.

Auston takes full advantage and cocks his hips forward. Mitch sputters in response.

“Do you do this with all the girls you’re with?” Mitch says.

“It’s called being sexy, and wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Just get it over with,” Mitch flaps his eyes shut. His right hand circles around Auston’s ankle to ground him to reality but there’s otherwise no contact between them.

Auston fists one hand around his cock but eyes Mitch’s limp dick. There’s an imaginary line separating him from Mitch that he can’t penetrate. He knows that. It’s written in some sexual rulebook they’re citing from memory.

That night in particular though, Auston’s feeling cocky. The addition of the pictures plus sweet talking Mitch into sex yet again has him riding on a runner’s high. His hips drop low and shorten the distance between them. He moves his hand up through Mitch’s hipbones and skirts the skin, pulled taut over bones and leaving Mitch a skeleton.

It’s a break from their regular programming and Mitch takes immediate notice. The wiry grin Auston gets is Mitch’s subtle poke at the interaction, trying to indirectly solve his problems as per usual. The lack of an explicit response only eggs Auston into circling the ticklish folds of skin above Mitch’s pecs, cold to the touch.

Mitch’s mouth finally opens to try and scrap together a reply but Auston beats him to the punch, leaning in to force Mitch’s personal space to accept the giant body looming above him like a fenced-in enclosure.

“You’re so stiff, did the game not drain all the energy outta you?” Auston asks.

“You try lying back like this with a man’s dick in your face.” The joke in the reply wobbles dangerously on the edge as Auston persists with drilling his eyes into Mitch’s hairs.

Auston forces a wide grin onto his face.

“Just keep being good for me. I know this is a lot for you.” He pets Mitch’s sides. “But you’re doing a great job.”

Mitch is knocking his calves together; Auston can hear the sound of the skin slapping inches away from where his knees dig into the memory foam. Mitch is trying his hardest to distance himself from the two bedroom suite but can’t help the fidgeting, once or twice knocking into Auston’s hands and hunching down.

In theory, they’re little ticks. Auston can’t help the staggering annoyance those as the fantasy he’s cooking up is continually cut by Mitch rolling around.

“Mitch,” Auston sighs after the third time Mitch’s knee reflexively bounces. “This isn’t working. You need to calm down.”

“I already said--” Auston intervenes before Mitch can finish the sentence and puts his hands on Mitch’s chest, digging into the meat of his abs. The shock value is more effective than any weight Auston throws around; Mitch owlishly blinks from underneath at the audacity.

“I’m sorry but you need to stop moving,” Auston says. “I’m just gonna try and use my hands to relax you a bit if that’s fine with you.”

“Auston, why does it matter?” Mitch exasperatedly throws his head back, the blow only cushioned by the double-decker pillows he’s stacked up behind him. “Just jerk off and go.”

“You’re still my partner, I need to look out for you.” Auston draws little moons into Mitch’s muscles, connecting the freckles like constellations.

“Whatever,” Mitch snaps, his bottom lip curled inward. Auston knows it’s the stress talking but the inward urge to fire away a complaint overpowers him.

“I hope you’re not like this with actual women--”

“Of course not.”

“--because if so, that explains why you can’t pick up. Marns, it doesn’t matter what I teach you if your bedroom etiquette stinks.”

To add insult to injury, it gets Mitch all up in a huff and it’s the exact opposite conditions Auston wants to be working with. His mind is preoccupied with the pictures he stole of Mitch’s body simply because the real thing has all the appeal of eating plain rice cakes.

It’s unfortunate because he’s been waiting for the day Mitch would let down his defences and let him get close like this. He could very well just force an orgasm and sulk in the corner of the room with his tail between his legs, but the clear vulnerability Mitch is expressing gives him other ideas.

“You know what? Sit up. Let me help you.”

Mitch’s eye flitter open, close the second he gets a full serving of naked Auston, and then reopen once he’s filtered his head to the side.

“I don’t need help Auston,” he murmurs. Auston gets two hands under Mitch’s armpits and hefts him up without waiting for commitment.

Mitch yelps and inches back a bit, but is nothing more than an active audience. Auston knows he won’t say no if he continues to prod.

“Obviously you do. Come on, it’s better to do it in person than over Snaps,” he pauses, “you’ll thank me later.”

He thinks about trying to sprinkle more into the argument but his willing determination must translate through his expression.

As always, Mitch gives up the fight.

“Fine,” Mitch huffs, “just be quick.”

Mitch, scantily clad in nothing but his socks, sits up and crosses his legs. Auston’s attention laser focuses on how the already small player is folding up like a lawn chair, trying his best to not show Auston his groin. Auston’s already got what he wants though and squirms up closer until the hairs framing their foreheads mingle.

“You’ve gotta really pamper your girl or she might get pissy or just plain quiet. I always go for the scalp first.” With Mitch’s permission, his nails scratch the nerve endings on the back of Mitch’s head, interweaving with the hair like the undertow of a tide dragging seaweed away from shore.

“That’s it. Just relax, I’m trying to help you.”

He continues with an onslaught of circle strokes as his left hand cups the back of the man’s neck for support. When Auston’s middle finger comes dangerously close to making a shallow incision behind the backs of the ears, Mitch’s restless leg bouncing morphs into an all-out squalor.

“Look at you, you can’t resist. This is exactly what you want to draw out of them.”

Mitch bays him away with the palms of his hands. “Okay, good, head, ears, whatever. Is that it?”

“It's a process, Mitchy. Slow and steady. Next is the back of the neck.” He wipes the backs of his fingers across Mitch's nape. “It's wicked fucking great if you do it right.”

Auston wrangles Mitch to the side, grabbing him by the chin and pulling him thin so that the winger’s neck pops. They're on equal eye level now.

“Is this when I kiss them?” Mitch says, staring at Auston’s lips in what rings as horror more than anything.

“Yeah, but don’t kiss me, dude.”

Auston sticks the flat of his tongue out, the recoil damage from how quickly Mitch back-pedals threatens to topple them both to the carpeted floors.

“Gross.” Mitch shakes his head around. “Just tell me what else to do.”

“Find out for yourself,” Auston says. “It’s not that hard if you’re paying attention.”

Mitch flounders around, his mouth opening twice to obscure a protest but deciding last minute to pause.

“Here,” he grabs Mitch by the base of his cock, “whenever you’re doing something that feels good, I’ll reciprocate so you know how it feels.”

Mitch’s composure erodes; he becomes visibly like some kind of blockade. It's as if the blood coursing under his skin has hardened to stone.

“Why are you touching me?” Mitch asks.

Auston applies a bit of pressure, then releases Mitch, leaving a sliver of space between his hand and Mitch’s cock. “I’m just trying to help dude. Sheesh.”

This voice pinches with annoyance and Mitch deflates.

“I mean,” Mitch's eyes slot to the side, “just stop holding me so hard.”

“I’m not doing this to hurt you Mitchy, I’m helping you. Go on, explore if you want.” He shuffles his body, extending his shoulders like crow’s wings. His heart pulses with the need to have Mitch’s touch absorb into his pores.

Mitch's hands are like shooting stars, jittering in place. The mini seizures translate to a mechanical buzz when Mitch's hands finally make contact and browse the large selection of skin as his disposal. The eyes don't even consider the groin, but Auston wasn't expecting any immediate insight on Mitch's behalf.

He bullies Mitch like how a bull trainer corals a bull by the horns. Mitch dolls his time out on the safe options like the packed muscles and shoulders. Auston deprives him of any stimulation until Mitch explores around Auston’s midsection and back. Only then does he warble out a dark huff and begin to reciprocate.

“Auston?” Mitch pants into his neck, some arousal starting to take effect after a long five minutes.

“Yes?”

“Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing okay but you’re still playing it safe. Sex is all about taking risks you’re not comfortable with.”

He roughly pulls up on Mitch’s dick until the man thrashes. It should be the straw that breaks the camel’s back but Auston tacks on a laugh at the end of the sentence and maintains the no strings attached label. He’s sharing his street smarts with a close friend and to read into it would be silly. Every smirk, laugh, and light tap to Mitch’s ass reaffirms it.

Mitch, always captive to his insecurities, cracks a grin, continuing to let Auston knead into his abdomen and draw out little mewls.

He can’t take accountability for whether or not his sanded palms will register as good friction for Mitch, but over a few minutes of him forcing intimacy onto Mitch, the winger falls victim to an orgasm regardless. It sends electrical pulses through Auston’s fingernails when he makes contact with Mitch’s elbow by mistake, the transfer defibrillating his heart in neat little strokes. It’s probably the first time ever that Mitch comes before him.

Thick cum pools around their abdomens, painting a cream-white trail down to Mitch’s pubes where it then mingles with the insides of his thighs. For a minute, there are no words either can process as their throats open up for oxygen to feed their hearts with. Auston watches Mitch go through the motions of recovery, starting with his inherent ability to drip-drip out from the world as an unconsciousness is feed into his arteries through an invisible IV.

Auston wastes no time, he kicks his legs out to find the discarded bottle of lube and shucks it out before Mitch’s eyelids peel away. The gel is cool as it dribbles onto his fingers and slips down the digit to diffuse into the skin there. He rubs his pointer and thumb together, keeping his stance wide as Mitch sits pretty underneath him.

“You okay?” he says for purchase.

Mitch sniffles, his nose twitching like a baby rabbit. Auston tries and fails to keep from grinning with how inappropriate it is given the applicable shame he should be feeling. It’s secondary to noting that the lube has warmed up.

“For what it’s worth, I think you started out great, but there’s one thing you still need to do.”

“What’s that?” One of Mitch’s eyes pokes open.

“You’re not down on their level. If you want to really wow them, well, you need to go above and beyond.”

Auston slots his hips forward, quickly using one arm to hoist Mitch’s legs up to get at his hole.

“Auston, what are you--“

“You said you wanted to get better right? Have you fingered a girl before?”

Mitch’s legs flail but fail to obscure his lower half. Auston traces the pucker with care, the outer muscles constricting so tight they’d probably decapitate the head of his dick.

“But I haven’t--I don’t--“

“You haven’t fingered a girl? Mitchy, you can’t just shove it in. You’ll hurt them; you don’t want that, do you?”

“I don’t but--“

Mitch will most definitely cut off the circulation in his fingers if he continues tensing, so Auston whips around the dead-end and goes off-road. He lets the rough pads of his pointer and middle finger tickle the lump of skin above Mitch’s taint, half-way to his scrotum before pressing in. Mitch’s able-bodiedness dissipates then, a full-blown quiver knocking his shoulders back and opening him up.

“Let me do this. I find it helps if you’ve felt it.”

“Yeah but I—I don’t—I’m not—“

Mitch begins the first escape, placing his weight on the backs of his hands as he pulls his legs forward and away from Auston’s fingers. Auston reciprocates by grabbing Mitch by each ankle and slotting him forward, trapping him underneath the heads of his knees as he pops the cap of the lube open again.

“Hey, shhh. It’s okay. Mitchy, we’re gonna go nice and slow. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Auston--”

“Okay, here’s what I’m going to do, because communication is important.” Mitch goes to open his mouth but Auston shushes him. “I’m just going to press the pad up against the lips here.”

Mitch jumps off the bed sporadically, whipping his arms around like he has no place in particular to put them. His hands alternate from grabbing squishy handfuls of the comforter to clawing at the pillow just hard enough for the stuffing to spill out the sides. The tongue warbles as it struggles to articulate an argument sufficient enough to force Auston’s hands out where they poke at the star-shaped hole.

“Don’t call them lips,” Mitch moans into the pillow.

“She’s going to have them, won’t she? Your partner is going to clench up as a protection measure. she knows that this might hurt and we’re just going to be very patient and wait for it to stop clenching down. Then once it’s relaxed, we can slide in.”

Mitch isn’t fully exposed and the initial entrance requires more shoving than usual to penetrate. The inner walls try to force out Auston’s pointer finger, the wet heat throbbing. It’s a warm, wet sponge that’s quaking with want. It’s unbelievably tight, made more arousing by the shrieking Mitch is undergoing mere inches away.

“Easy, there you go. Good job, Mitchy. Just breathe.”

Mitch’s hand shoots out to grab Auston by the wrist and hold him there. There’s no power in the grip though, Auston can relax the muscles in his hand and still swipe his finger from side to side.

He keeps the movements direct, every minute taking the liberty of adding lubricant to make the slide easier. He wants to coax Mitch out of the shell he’s clenched in, the defence mechanism only adding more stimulation. Auston can hear the other man’s moans of discomfort project over the slick slosh of his fingers.

“How does it feel?” Auston says.

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“That’s because my finger is straightened out. This is how most guys finger girls. What you gotta do is curl it up like you’re doing a come-here motion.” Auston narrates his actions, stroking his fingers through the chasm until Mitch begins to bolt.

Mitch back lifts up, as if pulled by a curtain string. “O-Oh.”

“Hang on, I haven’t got it just right yet.”

Mitch rolls around like he’s got lightning-bugs skirting up his back. The muscles that were once tensing around his neck relax, and let the folds smush into pale white bliss; the remaining skin smoothes out to show the light dusting of freckles on the peaks of his shoulders.

The tip of Auston’s finger angles itself to the right more and in the process of a quick jab accidentally nails Mitch’s prostate head on. The effect is instantaneously and his forehead just misses getting knocked by the back of Mitch’s elbow in the mans’ spontaneous recovery.

“Fuck! I feel like--wait, Auston, stop. I gotta pee.” Mitch’s hand returns to Auston’s wrist, squeezing.

“No, you don’t. It’s just reflex. Sit down and let me finish.” Auston snaps.

The pleasure’s highly concentrated, focused on Mitch’s lower abdomen. Auston continues a series of scrapes against the bulbous shape inside. Because it’s internal, Mitch’s thrashing makes little difference. No position satisfies the grimace on Mitch’s mug, stretched out like a fuzzy caterpillar.

“Is this normal?” Mitch says around a mouthful of gooey saliva. His tongue is lolling around like he’s been fed anesthesia, not fingered. If Auston could roll his eyes at the drama queen antics, he would. However, his concerns rest on continuing to stroke the bulb in circles until he sees a bit of blood pump itself into Mitch’s dick.

“Perfectly normal, but I need you to sit back and pay attention otherwise you’re never going to be able to do this later. I’m not going to ask again; relax.”

The pleasure on Mitch’s face continues like a closed electrical circuit. Auston can’t look away, anxious to get to a point where he can see Mitch’s toes curl. Inside, his fingers hit the walls and popped back and forth several times just to feel the sensation of the little pucker stretching open.

Mitch’s condition is rapidly deteriorating and Auston can see how dazed he’s gotten in a matter of minutes. On one hand, there was no longer resistance and Mitch is adjusting his hips to get the best results. The poor man is incoherent like a pitiful animal in heat, begging to be mounted. Auston feels blood rush out of his head, forcing him to double over and quit his ministrations as he loses wind.

Despite all that and more, they were beginning to settle in a rhythm and Mitch is settling down, massaging Auston’s hand like a snug winter glove. That was going to change.

“Mitch?” he prodded, taking away his finger for a second to snatch the man’s attention back. Mitch, just as helpless as before, pants through a thick sheen of sweat as he cocks his head to the side.

“Yes?”

“Can I add another finger?”

“More?” Mitch asks, eyes wet and reddened. Auston holds up one more and waits for the all-clear before he sinks back in. His middle finger is the first to test the elastic stretch and the anticipation is getting Auston hard.

“Just a middle, don’t worry. You’re doing great so far.”

Mitch yelps at the second introduction and especially with how Auston doesn’t yield at the first knuckle and pushes in quite a bit. Mitch tries to back up a bit to make himself comfortable but his face is left wide open in the process. Mitch’s pupils ordinarily are blown and doll-like, but now have an electric edge to them. They’re so fuzzy that it’s inconceivable that Mitch could still see.

Auston’s threatened to start his gooey sermon. Grooming Mitch into hooking his bony little palms into the wood of the headrest and giving Auston ample room to work with. If he pleased, he could go ham with it and shove the remaining two fingers in, but he chooses to milk the remaining few screams Mitch will choke out. He exhausts every possible cry he can get until Mitch no longer complains about the oversensitivity of his dick and moves his complaints to how sore his hole is. A first timer probably wouldn’t be able to handle the hands-off approach and Auston changes gears lickety-split.

With one hand back on Mitch’s cock, Auston swings himself back into the saddle. Automatically, Mitch tries to move again to fix the phantom sensation lodged up his ass and Auston slumps his shoulders down to let Mitch work it out for himself. He offers no words of encouragement and lets Mitch feel around in the dark, eventually settling on hooking a leg over Auston’s shoulder. It opens him up perfectly and the third finger Auston adds slips through like a knife through butter.

He knows the added touching is just throwing salt on open wounds, and he tries to make up for it by replicating some of the techniques Mitch used on him. The kneading motions on Mitch’s inner thigh don’t grant him much favour, if Mitch’s little puffs of air are any indication.

“It’s so deep,” Mitch says, almost to himself.

Auston snorts. “Dude, this is just fingers. You want to know what it’s like to get a whole dick up there?” Mitch freezes, tension coiling in his neck. “I’m kidding Mitch, I wouldn’t do that. I’m just saying, you gotta be empathetic to the ladies. They go through a lot for you.”

“Y-Yeah.”

“You’re doing much better now though, I gotta say. I’m really impressed Mitchy.” Auston pats his inner thigh twice, the impact forcing Mitch’s hole to grip his joints. “Now, how close are you?”

Mitch throws an arm over his head, groaning. “I don’t know,” he whines.

“Mitch, I need an estimate. Can you get off with just my fingers? Will you try?” Auston begins to pull his fingers out, not intending to remove himself completely but finding a sick sense of joy in how just the idea has Mitch crying.

Mitch throws his hips up. “No, no, come back. Touch me, please.”

“You know, when you’re with a girl she’s not going to have a dick to jerk off with.”

“Just make me come. I wanna come,” Mitch howls.

The throaty demand tips Auston over the last hurdle of self-restraint, and he can no longer ignore his own wicked impulses. He adds his hand to his own dick and comes in rapid succession. Semen flies up and stripes the bottom of Mitch’s chin. The winger begins thrashing.

There’s no restraint left to facilitate Mitch, his voice box moans out vowels to the beat of Auston’s fingers. With more creative freedom under his belt, Auston takes his time mapping out the cushy insides of Mitch. He never breaks stride and continues a very lucrative pace that never gives Mitch time to recover, combining a rough fingering with a sloppy handjob. When he looks up, Mitch’s mouth is frothing with saliva, a wet plaster and an open hole. Auston’s brought back to the workout sessions in the gym, when he first fell for Mitch’s sweaty locks of hair, and can’t help cawing in a victory of what he has achieved.

“That's it. Up you go,” he narrates, spreading his fingers out and hooking them up, leaving Mitch no choice but to follow the curve. “Don't let up with the fingers just yet. You gotta bring them over.” He means well, twisting the syllables around his tongue like polishing diamonds.

Auston manages to forfeit some control for absurd gain in watching Mitch unravel at his fingertips. He hardly needs to strong-arm Mitch’s dick much, the stimulation from the man’s prostate is already forcing his hand. It takes those last few words of encouragement to finally nudge Mitch up over the hill he’s planted himself to, reluctantly tossing him into an orgasm that has his hole begging Auston’s hand to stay. Auston's physically unable to retreat it until Mitch has stopped convulsing on the bed in front of him.

It’s a marvellous sight and Auston would’ve made a second effort to come if he could. Mitch looks worse for wear though and both of Auston’s hands stick together. He’s well due for a trip to the bathroom sink. Reluctantly, he leaves the poor boy behind to synthesize in the cotton sheets pooling around his body.

He lathers the liquid soap over his hands then goes for the solid, scrubbing in between his fingers and around his thumb. The water is boiling hot temperature and begins fogging up the cheap glass on the mirror. He doesn’t dawdle, splashing tap water up on the bridge of his nose and clearing the congestion of heat building at the root of his forehead.

Mitch is sedated when he returns, stretched out on the bed in the same position Auston left him in, with one thigh gingerly draping over the other. Although Mitch’s mouth hangs open and his eye glaze over, there’s something uncanny about the lifeless posture his body is hung in.

Auston’s able to stroll on over and place a hand on Mitch’s left bicep.

“Hey Mitchy,” he says. “You did so great for me. Thanks, bro.”

Mitch huffs, closing his red rims.

**Author's Note:**

> Mitch has consistently come to Auston for advice on how to pick up and is taken advantage of. Auston, without Mitch's permission, keeps private photographs Mitch sends for his own. Auston pretends he's helping Mitch with his advice and uses it as an excuse to touch him in ways that make him uncomfortable. With questionable consent, Auston fingers Mitch and guilt trips him into allowing it. Although Mitch appears to consent to being touched, this consent comes under question because of peer-pressure and validation-seeking behaviour. This is an act of sexual assault.
> 
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr


End file.
